THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

BY  ROBERT  HERRICK 


THE    MASTER    OF    THE   INN 


IN   SIMILAR   FORM 

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Mary  Raymond  Shipman  Andrews 
The  Perfect  Tribute 
The  Lifted  Bandage 
The  Courage  of 

the  Commonplace 
The  Counsel  Assigned 

Malthie  Davenport  Babcock 

The  Success  of  Defeat 

Katharine  Holland  Brown 
The  Messenger 

Richard  Harding  Davit 
The  Consul 

Marion  Harland 

Looking  Westward 

Robert  Herrick 

The  Master  of  the  Inn 

Frederick  Landis 

The  Angel  of  Lonesome  Hill 

Francis  E.  Leupp 

A  Day  with  Father 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

A  Christmas  Sermon 
Prayers  Written  at  Vailima 
Aes  Triplex 

Isobel  Strong 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

-Henry  van  Dyke 

School  of  Life 

The  Spirit  of  Christmas 


THE 

MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

BY 

Robert  Herrick 


NEW  YORK 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons 
1914 


Copyright,  1908,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


Published  April,  1908 

Second  Impression,  July,  1908 

Third  Impression,  September,  1908 

Fourth  Impression,  December,  1908 

Fifth  Impression,  December,  1908 

Sixth  Impression,  July,  1909 
Seventh  Impression,  October,  1909 
Eighth  Impression,  January,  1910 

Ninth  Impression,  July,  1910 
Tenth  Impression,  October,  1910 
Eleventh  Impression,  February,  1911 
Twelfth  Impression,  September,  1911 
Thirteenth  Impression,  January,  1912 
Fourteenth  Impression,  August,  1912 

Fifteenth  Impression,  July,  1913 
Sixteenth  Impression,  March,  1914 


The  author  of  "The Master  of  the  Inn" 
having  received  many  inquiries  as  to 
what  foundation  in  fact  this  tale  has 
Irishes  to  state  explicitly  that  both 
incidents  and  persons  are  purely  im- 
aginary, and  that  so  far  as  he  is  aware 
there  is  neither  Hosier  nor  Inn  in 
existence. 

Chicago,  Itts., 
12  May,  1909. 


2021286 


THE    MASTER    OF    THE    IXX 


THE 
MASTER  OF  THE  INN 


IT  was  a  plain  brick  house,  three 
full   stories,   with    four    broad 
chimneys,     and      overhanging 
eaves'.     The   tradition    was    that    it 
had  been  a  colonial  tavern — a  dot 
among  the  fir-covered  northern  hills 
on  the  climbing  post-road  into  Can- 
ada.    The   village    scattered    along 
the  road  below  the  inn  was  called 
Albany — and   soon  forgotten  when 
the     railroad    sought    an     opening 
through  a  valley  less  rugged,  eight 
miles  to  the  west. 
Rather  more  than  thirty  years  ago 

[3] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

the  Doctor  had  arrived,  one  summer 
day,  and  opened  all  the  doors  and 
windows  of  the  neglected  old  house, 
which  he  had  bought  from  scattered 
heirs.  He  was  a  quiet  man,  the 
Doctor,  in  middle  life  then  or  nearly 
so;  and  he  sank  almost  without  re- 
mark into  the  world  of  Albany,  where 
they  raise  hay  and  potatoes  and  still 
cut  good  white  pine  off  the  hills. 
Gradually  the  old  brick  tavern  re- 
sumed the  functions  of  life:  many 
buildings  were  added  to  it  as  well 
as  many  acres  of  farm  and  forest  to 
the  Doctor's  original  purchase  of  in- 
tervale land.  The  new  Master  did 
not  open  his  house  to  the  public, 
yet  he,  too,  kept  a  sort  of  Inn,  where 
men  came  and  stayed  a  long  time. 
Although  no  sign  now  hung  from  the 
old  elm  tree  in  front  of  the  house, 

[4] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

nevertheless  an  ever-widening  stream 
of  humanity  mounted  the  winding 
road  from  White  River  and  passed 
through  the  doors  of  the  Inn,  seeking 
life.  .  .  . 

That  first  summer  the  Doctor 
brought  with  him  Sam,  the  China- 
man, whom  we  all  came  to  know 
and  love,  and  also  a  young  man, 
who  loafed  much  while  the  Doctor 
worked,  and  occasionally  fished. 
This  was  John  Herring — now  a 
famous  architect — and  it  was  from 
his  designs,  sketched  those  first  idle 
summer  days,  that  were  built  all  the 
additions  to  the  simple  old  house 
— the  two  low  wings  in  the  rear  for 
the  "cells,"  with  the  Italian  garden 
between  them;  the  marble  seat  curv- 
ing around  the  pool  that  joined  the 
wings  on  the  west;  also  the  substan- 
[5] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

tial  wall  that  hid  the  Inn,  its  ter- 
raced gardens  and  orchards,  from 
Albanian  curiosity.  Herring  found  a 
store  of  red  brick  in  some  crumbling 
buildings  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
he  discovered  the  quarry  whence 
came  those  thick  slabs  of  purple 
slate.  The  blue-veined  marble  was 
had  from  a  fissure  in  the  hills,  and 
the  Doctor's  School  made  the  tiles. 

I  think  Herring  never  did  better 
work  than  in  the  making  over  of  this 
old  tavern:  he  divined  that  subtle 
affinity  which  exists  between  north 
Italy,  with  all  its  art,  and  our  bare 
New  England ;  and  he  dared  to  graft 
boldly  one  to  the  other,  having  the 
rear  of  the  Inn  altogether  Italian 
with  its  portico,  its  dainty  colonnades, 
the  garden  and  the  fountain  and  the 
pool.  From  all  this  one  looked  down 

[6] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

on  the  waving  grass  of  the  Intervale, 
which  fell  away  gently  to  the  tur- 
bulent White  River,  then  rose  again 
to  the  wooded  hills  that  folded  one 
upon  another,  with  ever  deepening 
blue,  always  upward  and  beyond. 

Not  all  this  building  at  once,  to  be 
sure,  as  the  millionaire  builds;  but  a 
gradual  growth  over  a  couple  of  dec- 
ades; and  all  built  lovingly  by  the 
"Brothers,"  stone  on  stone,  brick 
and  beam  and  tile — many  a  hand 
taking  part  in  it  that  came  weak  to 
the  task  and  left  it  sturdy.  There  was 
also  the  terraced  arrangement  of 
gardens  and  orchards  on  either  side 
of  the  Inn,  reaching  to  the  farm 
buildings  on  the  one  side  and  to  the 
village  on  the  other.  For  a  time  Her- 
ring respected  the  quaint  old  tavern 
with  its  small  rooms  and  pine  wain- 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

scot;  then  he  made  a  stately  two- 
storied  hall  out  of  one  half  where  we 
dined  in  bad  weather,  and  a  pleasant 
study  for  the  Doctor  from  the  rest. 
The  doors  east  and  west  always 
stood  open  in  the  summer,  giving  the 
rare  passer-by  a  glimpse  of  that  ra- 
diant blue  heaven  among  the  hills, 
with  the  silver  flash  of  the  river  in 
the  middle  distance,  and  a  little 
square  of  peaceful  garden  close  at 
hand.  .  .  .  The  tough  northern  grasses 
rustled  in  the  breezes  that  always 
played  about  Albany;  and  the  scent 
of  spruce  drawn  by  the  hot  sun — the 
strong  resinous  breath  of  the  north — 
was  borne  from  the  woods. 

Thus  it  started*  that  household  of 
men  in  the  old  Inn  at  the  far  end  of 
Albany  village  among  the  northern 
hills,  with  the  Doctor  and  Sam  and 

[8] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

Herring,  who  had  been  flung  aside 
after  his  first  skirmish  with  life 
and  was  picked  up  in  pure  kind- 
ness by  the  Doctor,  as  a  bit  of  the 
broken  waste  of  our  modern  world, 
and  carried  off  with  him  out  of  the 
city.  The  young  architect  returning 
in  due  time  to  the  fight — singing — 
naturally  venerated  the  Doctor  as  a 
father ;  and  when  a  dear  friend  stum- 
bled and  fell  in  the  via  dura  of  this 
life,  he  whispered  to  him  word  of  the 
Tnn  and  its  Master — of  the  life  up 
there  among  the  hills  where  Man  is 
little  and  God  looks  down  on  his 
earth.  .  .  .  "Oh,  you'll  understand 
when  you  put  your  eyes  on  White 
Face  some  morning!  The  Doctor? 
He  heals  both  body  and  soul."  And 
this  one  having  heeded  spoke  the 
word  in  turn  to  others  in  need — 
[9] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

"to  the  right  sort,  who  would  under- 
stand." Thus  the  custom  grew  like  a 
faith,  and  a  kind  of  brotherhood  was 
formed,  of  those  who  had  found 
more  than  health  at  the  Inn — who 
had  found  themselves.  The  Doctor, 
ever  busy  about  his  farms  and  his 
woods,  his  building,  and  above  all 
his  School,  soon  had  on  his  hands  a 
dozen  or  more  patients  or  guests,  as 
you  might  call  them,  and  he  set  them 
to  work  speedily.  There  was  little 
medicine  to  be  found  in  the  Inn :  the 
sick  labored  as  they  could  and  thus 
grew  strong.  .  .  . 

And  so,  as  one  was  added  to  an- 
other, they  began  to  call  themselves, 
in  joke  "Brothers,"  and  the  Doctor, 
"Father."  The  older  "Brothers" 
would  return  to  the  Inn  from  all 
parts  of  the  land,  for  a  few  days  or  a 

[10] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

few  weeks,  to  grasp  the  Doctor's 
hand,  to  have  a  dip  in  the  pool,  to 
try  the  little  brooks  among  the  hills. 
Young  men  and  middle-aged,  and 
even  the  old,  they  came  from  the 
cities  where  the  heat  of  living  had 
scorched  them,  where  they  had  fal- 
tered and  doubted  the  goodness  of 
Ufe.  In  some  way  word  of  the  Master 
had  reached  them,  with  this  com- 
pelling advice — "Go!  And  tell  him  I 
sent  you."  So  from  the  clinic  or  the 
lecture-room,  from  the  office  or  the 
mill — wherever  men  labor  with  tight- 
ening nerves — the  needy  one  started 
on  his  long  journey.  Toward  even- 
ing he  was  set  down  before  the 
plain  red  face  of  the  Inn.  And  as  the 
Stranger  entered  the  old  hall,  a  voice 
was  sure  to  greet  him  from  within 
somewhere,  the  deep  voice  of  a 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

hearty  man,  and  presently  the  Mas- 
ter appeared  to  welcome  the  new- 
comer, resting  one  hand  on  his 
guest's  shoulder  perhaps,  with  a 
yearning  affection  that  ran  before 
knowledge. 

"So  you've  come,  my  boy,"  he  said. 
"Herring  [or  some  one]  wrote  me  to 
look  for  you." 

And  after  a  few  more  words  of 
greeting,  the  Doctor  beckoned  to 
Sam,  and  gave  the  guest  over  to  his 
hands.  Thereupon  the  Chinaman 
slippered  through  tiled  passageways 
to  the  court,  where  the  Stranger, 
caught  by  the  beauty  and  peace  so 
well  hidden,  lingered  a  while.  The 
little  space  within  the  wings  was 
filled  with  flowers  as  far  as  the  yellow 
water  of  the  pool  and  the  marble 
bench.  In  the  centre  of  the  court  was 

[12] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

an  old  gray  fountain — sent  from 
Verona  by  a  Brother — from  which 
the  water  dropped  and  ran  away 
among  the  flower  beds  to  the  pool. 
A  stately  elm  tree  shaded  this  place, 
flecking  the  water  below.  The  sun 
shot  long  rays  beneath  its  branches 
into  the  court,  and  over  all  there  was 
an  odor  of  blossoming  flowers  and 
the  murmur  of  bees. 

"Bath!"'  Sam  explained,  grinning 
toward  the  pool. 

With  the  trickle  of  the  fountain  in 
his  ears  the  Stranger  looked  out 
across  the  ripening  fields  of  the  Inter- 
vale to  the  noble  sky-line  of  the 
Stowe  hills.  Those  little  mountains 
of  the  north!  Mere  hills  to  all  who 
know  the  giants  of  the  earth — not 
mountains  in  the  brotherhood  of  ice 
and  snow  and  rock!  But  in  form  and 

[13] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

color,  in  the  lesser  things  that  create 
the  love  of  men  for  places,  they  rise 
nobly  toward  heaven, those  little  hills! 
On  a  summer  day  like  this  their 
broad  breasts  flutter  with  waving 
tree-tops,  and  at  evening  depth  on 
depth  of  purple  mist  gathers  over 
them,  dropping  into  those  soft  curves 
where  the  little  brooks  flow,  and 
mounting  even  to  the  sky-line.  When 
the  sun  has  fallen,  there  rests  a  band 
of  pure  saffron,  and  in  the  calm  and 
perfect  peace  of  evening  there  is  a 
hint  of  coming  moonlight.  Ah,  they 
are  of  the  fellowship  of  mountains, 
those  little  hills  of  Stowe !  And  when 
in  winter  their  flanks  are  jewelled 
with  ice  and  snow,  then  they  raise 
their  heads  proudly  to  the  stars,  call- 
ing across  the  frozen  valleys  to  their 
greater  brethren  in  the  midriff  of 

[14] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

the  continent — "Behold,  we  also  are 
hills,  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord!"  .  .  . 
Meantime  Sam,  with  Oriental  ease, 
goes  slipping  along  the  afcade  until 
he  comes  to  a  certain  oak  door, 
where  he  drops  your  bag,  and  dis- 
appears, having  saluted.  It  is  an 
ample  and  lofty  room,  and  on  the 
outer  side  of  it  hangs  a  little  balcony 
above  the  orchard,  from  which  there 
is  a  view  of  the  valley  and  the  woods 
beyond,  and  from  somewhere  in  the 
fields  the  note  of  the  thrush  rises. 
The  room  itself  is  cool,  of  a  gray 
tone,  with  a  broad  fireplace,  a  heavy 
table,  and  many  books.  Otherwise 
there  are  bed  and  chairs  and  dress- 
ing-table, the  necessities  of  life  aus- 
terely provided.  And  Peace!  God, 
what  Peace  to  him  who  has  escaped 
from  the  furnace  men  make!  It  is  as 

[15] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

if  he  had  come  all  the  way  to  the  end 
of  the  world,  and  found  there  a  great 
still  room  of  peace. 

Soon  a  bell  sounds — with  a  strange 
vibration  as  though  in  distant  lands 
it  had  summoned  many  a  body  of 
men  together — and  the  household  as- 
sembles under  the  arcade.  If  it  is 
fair  and  not  cold,  Sam  and  his  helpers 
bring  out  the  long  narrow  table  and 
place  it,  as  Veronese  places  his  feast- 
ers,  lengthwise  beneath  the  colon- 
nade, and  thus  the  evening  meal  is 
served.  A  fresh,  coarse  napkin  is  laid 
on  the  bare  board  before  each  man, 
no  more  than  enough  for  all  those 
present,  and  the  Doctor  sits  in  the 
middle,  serving  all.  There  are  few 
dishes,  and  for  the  most  part  such 
as  may  be  got  at  home  there  in  the 
hills.  There  is  a  pitcher  of  cider  at 

[16] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

one  end  and  a  pitcher  of  mild  white 
wine  at  the  other,  and  the  men  eat 
and  drink,  with  jokes  and  talk — the 
laughter  of  the  day.  (The  novice 
might  feel  only  the  harmony  of  it 
all,  but  later  he  will  learn  how  many 
considered  elements  go  to  the  mak- 
ing of  Peace.)  Afterward,  when  Sam 
has  brought  pipes  and  tobacco,  the 
Master  leads  the  way  to  the  sweeping 
semicircle  of  marble  seat  around  the 
pool  with  the  leafy  tree  overhead ;  and 
there  they  sit  into  the  soft  night,  talk- 
ing of  all  things,  with  the  glow  of 
pipes,  until  one  after  another  slips 
away  to  sleep.  For  as  the  Master 
said,  "Talk  among  men  in  common 
softens  the  muscles  of  the  mind  and 
quickens  the  heart."  Yet  he  loved 
most  to  hear  the  talk  of  others. 
Thus  insensibly  for  the  Novice  there 

[17] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

begins  the  life  of  the  place,  opening 
in  a  gentle  and  persistent  routine  that 
takes  him  in  its  flow  and  carries 
him  on  with  it.  He  finds  Tradition 
and  Habit  all  about  him,  in  the 
ordered,  unconscious  life  of  the  Inn, 
to  which  he  yields  without  question. 
.  .  .  Shortly  after  dawn  the  bell 
sounds,  and  then  the  men  meet  at 
the  pool,  where  the  Doctor  is  al- 
ways first.  A  plunge  into  the  yellow 
water  which  is  flecked  with  the 
fallen  leaves,  and  afterward  to  each 
man's  room  there  is  brought  a 
large  bowl  of  coffee  and  hot  milk, 
with  bread  and  eggs  and  fruit.  What 
more  he  craves  may  be  found  in 
the  hall. 

Soon  there  is  a  tap  on  the  new- 
comer's door,  and  a  neighborly  voice 
calls  out — "We  all  go  into  the  fields 

[18] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

every  morning,  you  know.  You  must 
earn  your  dinner,  the  Doctor  says,  or 
borrow  it!"  So  the  Novice  goes  forth 
to  earn  his  first  dinner  with  his  hands. 
Beyond  the  gardens  and  the  orchards 
are  the  barns  and  sheds,  and  a 
vista  of  level  acres  of  hay  and  pota- 
toes and  rye,  the  bearing  acres  of  the 
farm,  and  beyond  these  the  woods 
on  the  hills.  "Nearly  a  thousand 
acres,  fields  and  woods,"  the  neigh- 
bor explains.  "Oh,  there's  plenty  to 
do  all  times!"  Meantime  the  Doctor 
strides  ahead  through  the  wet  grass, 
his  eyes  roaming  here  and  there,  in- 
quiring the  state  of  his  land.  And 
watching  him  the  newcomer  be- 
lieves that  there  is  always  much  to 
be  done  wherever  the  Doctor  leads. 
It  may  be  July  and  hay  time — all 
the  intervale  grass  land  is  mowed  by 

[19] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

hand — there  is  a  sweat-breaking  task! 
Or  it  may  be  potatoes  to  hoe.  Or 
later  in  the  season  the  apples  have  to 
be  gathered — a  pleasant  pungent  job, 
filling  the  baskets  and  pouring  them 
into  the  fat-bellied  barrels.  But  what- 
ever the  work  may  be  the  Doctor 
keeps  the  Novice  in  his  mind,  and 
as  the  sun  climbs  high  over  the  Stowe 
hills,  he  taps  the  new  one  on  the 
shoulder — "Better  stop  here  to-day, 
my  boy!  You'll  find  a  good  tree 
over  there  by  the  brook  for  a 

nap " 

Under  that  particular  tree  in  the 
tall  timothy,  there  is  the  coolest  spot, 
and  the  Novice  drowses,  thinking  of 
those  wonderful  mowers  in  Anna,  as 
he  gazes  at  the  marching  files  eating 
their  way  through  the  meadow  until 
his  eyelids  fall  and  he  sleeps,  the  rip- 

[20] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

pie  of  waving  timothy  in  his  ears.  At 
noon  the  bell  sounds  again  from  the 
Inn,  and  the  men  come  striding 
homeward  wiping  the  sweat  from 
their  faces.  They  gather  at  the  swim- 
ming pool,  and  still  panting  from 
their  labor  strip  off  their  wet  gar- 
ments, then  plunge  one  after  another, 
like  happy  boys.  From  bath  to  room, 
and  a  few  minutes  for  fresh  clothes, 
and  all  troop  into  the  hall,  which  is 
dark  and  cool.  The  old  brick  walls 
of  the  tavern  never  held  a  gayer  lot 
of  guests. 

From  this  time  on  each  one  is  his 
own  master;  there  is  no  common 
toil.  The  farmer  and  his  men  take 
up  the  care  of  the  farm,  and  the 
Master  usually  goes  down  to  his 
School,  in  company  with  some  of  the 
Brothers.  Each  one  finds  his  own  way 

[21] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

of  spending  the  hours  till  sunset — 
some  fishing  or  shooting,  according 
to  the  season;  others,  in  tennis  or 
games  with  the  boys  of  the  School; 
and  some  reading  or  loafing — until 
the  shadows  begin  to  fall  across  the 
pool  into  the  court,  and  Sam  brings 
out  the  long  table  for  dinner. 

The  seasons  shading  imperceptibly 
into  one  another  vary  the  course  of 
the  day.  Early  in  September  the  men 
begin  to  sit  long  about  the  hall-fire 
of  an  evening,  and  when  the  snow 
packs  hard  on  the  hills  there  is  wood- 
cutting to  be  done,  and  in  early 
spring  it  is  the  carpenter's  shop.  So 
the  form  alters,  but  the  substance 
remains — work  and  play  and  rest. . .  . 

To  each  one  a  time  will  come  when 
the  Doctor  speaks  to  him  alone.  At 
some  hour,  before  many  days  have 

[22] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

passed,  the  Novice  will  find  himself 
with  those  large  eyes  resting  on  his 
face,  searchingly.  It  may  be  in  the 
study  after  the  others  have  scattered, 
or  at  the  pool  where  the  Master  loved 
to  sit  beneath  the  great  tree  and  hear 
his  "confessions,"  as  the  men  called 
these  talks.  At  such  times,  when  the 
man  came  to  remember  it  afterward, 
the  Doctor  asked  few  questions,  said 
little,  but  listened.  He  had  the  con- 
fessing ear!  And  as  if  by  chance  his 
hand  would  rest  on  the  man's  arm  or 
shoulder.  For  he  said — "Touch 
speaks:  soul  flows  through  flesh  into 
soul." 

Thus  he  sat  and  confessed  his  pa- 
tients one  after  another,  and  his  dark 
eyes  seemed  familiar  with  all  man's 
woes,  as  if  he  had  listened  always. 
Men  said  to  him  what  they  had  never 

[23] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

before  let  pass  their  lips  to  man  or 
woman,  what  they  themselves  scarce 
looked  at  in  the  gloom  of  their  souls. 
Unawares  it  slipped  from  them,  the 
reason  within  the  reason  for  their  ill, 
the  ultimate  cause  of  sorrow.  From 
the  moment  they  had  revealed  to  him 
this  hidden  thing — had  slipped  the 
leash  on  their  tongues — it  seemed  no 
longer  to  be  feared.  "Trouble  evapo- 
rates, being  properly  aired,"  said  the 
Doctor.  And  already  in  the  troubled 
one's  mind  the  sense  of  the  confused 
snarl  of  life  began  to  lessen  and  veils 
began  to  descend  between  him  and 
it. ..."  For  you  must  learn  to  forget," 
counselled  the  Doctor,  "forget  day 
by  day  until  the  recording  soul  be- 
neath your  mind  is  clean.  Therefore 
— work,  forget,  be  new!"  .  .  . 
A  self-important  young  man,  much 

[24] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

concerned  with  himself,  once  asked 
the  Master: 

"Doctor,  what  is  the  regimen  that 
you  would  recommend  to  me?" 

And  we  all  heard  him  say  in  reply — 

"The  potatoes  need  hilling,  and 
then  you'll  feel  like  having  a  dip  in 
the  pool." 

The  young  man,  it  seems,  wrote 
back  to  the  friend  in  the  city  who  had 
sent  him — "This  Doctor  cannot  un- 
derstand my  case:  he  tells  me  to  dig 
potatoes  and  bathe  in  a  swimming 
pool.  That  is  all!  All!"  But  the 
friend,  who  was  an  old  member  of 
the  Brotherhood,  telegraphed  back — 
"Dig  and  swim,  you  fool!"  Sam  took 
the  message  at  the  telephone  while 
we  were  dining,  and  repeated  it 
faithfully  to  the  young  man  within 
the  hearing  of  all.  A  laugh  rose  that 

[25] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

was  hard  in  dying,  and  I  think  the 
Doctor's  lips  wreathed  in  smile.  .  .  . 
In  the  old  days  they  say  the  Master 
gave  medicine  like  other  doctors. 
That  was  when  he  spent  part  of  the 
year  in  the  city  and  had  an  office 
there  and  believed  in  drugs.  But  as 
he  gave  up  going  to  the  city,  the 
stock  of  drugs  in  the  cabinet  at  the 
end  of  the  study  became  exhausted, 
and  was  never  renewed.  All  who 
needed  medicine  were  sent  to  an  old 
Brother,  who  had  settled  down  the 
valley  at  Stowe.  "He  knows  more 
about  pills  than  I  do,"  the  Doctor 
said.  "At  least  he  can  give  you  the 
stuff  with  confidence."  Few  of  the 
inmates  of  the  Inn  ever  went  to 
Stowe,  though  Dr.  Williams  was  an 
excellent  physician.  And  it  was  from 
about  this  time  that  we  began  to 

[26] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

drop  the  title  of  doctor,  calling  him 
instead  the  Master;  and  the  younger 
men  sometimes,  Father.  He  seemed 
to  like  these  new  terms,  as  denoting 
affection  and  respect  for  his  author- 
fty. 

By  the  time  that  we  called  him 
Master,  the  Inn  had  come  to  its 
maturity.  Altogether  it  could  hold 
eighteen  guests,  and  if  more  came, 
as  in  midsummer  or  autumn,  thev 
lived  in  tents  in  the  orchard  or  in 
the  hill  camps.  The  Master  was  still 
adding  to  the  forest  land — fish  and 
game  preserve  the  village  people 
called  it;  for  the  Master  was  a  hunter 
and  a  fisherman.  But  up  among  those 
curving  hills,  when  he  looked  out 
through  the  waving  trees,  measuring 
by  eye  a  fir  or  a  pine,  he  would  say, 
nodding  his  head — "  Boys,  behold  my 

[*7] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

heirs — from    generation    to    genera- 
tion!" 

He  was  now  fifty  and  had  ceased 
altogether  to  go  to  the  city.  There 
were  ripe  men  in  the  great  hospitals 
that  still  remembered  him  as  a  young 
man  in  the  medical  school;  but  he 
had  dropped  out,  they  said — why? 
He  might  have  answered  that,  in- 
stead of  following  the  beaten  path, 
he  had  spoken  his  word  to  the  world 
through  men — and  spoken  widely. 
For  there  was  no  break  in  the  stream 
of  life  that  flowed  upward  to  the 
old  Inn.  The  "cells"  were  always 
full,  winter  and  summer.  Now  there 
were  coming  children  of  the  older 
Brothers,  and  these,  having  learned 
the  ways  of  the  place  from  their 
fathers,  were  already  house-broken, 
as  we  said,  when  they  came.  They 

[28] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

knew  that  no  door  was  locked  about 
the  Inn,  but  that  if  they  returned 
after  ten  it  behooved  them  to  come 
in  by  the  pool  and  make  no  noise. 
They  knew  that  when  the  first  ice 
formed  on  the  pool,  then  they  were 
not  expected  to  get  out  of  bed  for 
the  morning  plunge.  They  knew  that 
there  was  an  old  custom  which  no 
one  ever  forgot,  and  that  was  to  put 
money  in  the  house-box  behind  the 
hall  door  on  leaving,  at  least  some- 
thing for  each  day  of  the  time  spent, 
and  as  much  more  as  one  cared  to 
give.  For,  as  every  one  knew,  all  in 
the  box  beyond  the  daily  expense 
went  to  maintain  the  School  on  the 
road  below  the  village.  So  the  books 
of  the  Tnn  were  easy  to  keep — there 
was  never  a  word  about  money  in 
the  place — but  I  know  that  many  a 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

large  sum  of  money  was  found  in 
this  box,  and  the  School  never  wanted 
means. 

That  I  might  tell  more  of  what  took 
place  in  the  Inn,  and  what  the  Master 
said,  and  the  sort  of  men  one  found 
there,  and  the  talk  we  all  had  sum- 
mer evenings  beside  the  pool  and  win- 
ter nights  in  the  hall !  Winter,  I  think, 
was  the  best  time  of  all  the  year, 
the  greatest  beauty  and  the  great- 
est joy,  from  the  first  fall  of  the 
snow  to  the  yellow  brook  water  and 
the  floating  ice  in  White  River.  Then 
the  broad  velvety  shadows  lay  on  the 
hills  between  the  stiff  spruces,  then 
came  rosy  mornings  out  of  darkness 
when  you  knew  that  some  good  thing 
was  waiting  for  you  in  the  world. 
After  ycni  had  drunk  your  bowl  of 
coffee,  you  got  your  axe  and  followed 

[30] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

the  procession  of  choppers,  who  were 
carefully  foresting  the  Doctor's 
woods.  In  the  spring,  when  the  little 
brooks  had  begun  to  run  down  the 
slopes,  there  was  road  making  and 
mending;  for  the  Master  kept  in 
repair  most  of  the  roads  about 
Albany,  grinding  the  rock  in  his  pit, 
saying  that — "a  good  road  is  one 
sure  blessing." 

And  the  dusks  I  shall  never  forget 
— those  gold  and  violet  moments  with 
the  light  of  immortal  heavens  behind 
the  rampart  of  hills;  and  the  nights, 
so  still,  so  still  like  everlasting  death, 
each  star  set  jewel-wise  in  a  black 
sky  above  a  white  earth.  How 
splendid  it  was  to  turn  out  of  the 
warm  hall  where  we  had  been  read- 
ing and  talking  into  the  frosty  court, 
with  the  thermometer  at  twenty  be- 
[n] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

low  and  still  falling,  and  look  down 
across  the  broad  white  valley,  marked 
by  the  streak  of  bushy  alders  where 
the  dumb  river  flowed,  up  to  the 
little  frozen  water  courses  among  the 
hills,  up  above  where  the  stars  glit- 
tered! You  took  your  way  to  your 
room  in  the  silence,  rejoicing  that  it 
was  all  so,  that  somewhere  in  this 
tumultuous  world  of  ours  there  was 
hidden  all  this  beauty  and  the  secret 
of  living;  and  that  you  were  of  the 
brotherhood  of  those  who  had  found 
it.  ... 

Thus  was  the  Inn  and  its  Master  in 
the  year  when  he  touched  sixty,  and 
his  hair  and  beard  were  more  white 
than  gray. 


[321 


THEN  there  came  to  the  Inn  one 
day  in  the  early  part  of  the 
summer  a  new  guest — a  man 
about  fifty,  ,with  an  aging,  worldly 
face.  Bill,  the  Albany  stage  man,  had 
brought  him  from  Island  Junction, 
and  on  the  way  had  answered  all  his 
questions,  discreetly,  reckoning  in  his 
wisdom  that  his  passenger  was  "  one 
of  those  queer  folks  that  went  up  to 
the  old  Doctor's  place."  For  there 
was  something  smart  and  fashionable 
about  the  stranger's  appearance  that 
made  Bill  uncomfortable. 

"There,"  he  said,  as  he  pulled  up 
outside  the  red  brick  house  and 
pointed  over  the  wall  into  the  garden, 

[33] 


THE  MASTER  OP  THE  INN 

"mos'  likely  you'll  find  the  old  man 
fussin'  'round  somewheres  inside 
there,  if  he  hain't  down  to  the  School," 
and  he  drove  off  with  the  people's 
mail. 

The  stranger  looked  back  through 
the  village  street,  which  was  as  silent 
as  a  village  street  should  be  at  four 
o'clock  on  a  summer  day.  Then  he 
muttered  to  himself,  whimsically, 
"Mos'  likely  you'll  find  the  old  man 
fussin'  'round  somewheres  inside!" 
Well,  what  next?  And  he  glanced  at 
the  homely  red  brick  building  with 
the  cold  eye  of  one  who  has  made 
many  goings  out  and  comings  in, 
and  to  whom  novelty  offers  little 
entertainment.  As  he  stood  there 
(thinking  possibly  of  that  early  train 
from  the  junction  on  the  morrow) 
the  hall  door  opened  wide,  and  an 

[34] 


THE  MASTER  OP  THE  INN 

oldish  man  with  white  eye-brows  and 
blaek  eyes  appeared.  He  was  dressed 
in  a  linen  suit  that  deepened  the  dark 
tan  of  his  face  and  hands.     He  said: 
"You  are  Dr.  Augustus  Norton?" 
"And   you,"   the   Stranger   replied 
with  a  graceful  smile,  "are  the  Mas- 
ter— and  this  is  the  Inn!" 

He  had  forgotten  what  Percival 
called  the  old  boy — forgot  everything 
these  days — had  tried  to  remember 
the  name  all  the  way  up — neverthe- 
less, he  had  turned  it  off  well !  So  the 
two  looked  at  each  other — one  a  little 
younger  as  years  go,  but  with  lined 
face  and  shaking  fingers;  the  other 
solid  and  self-contained,  with  less  of 
that  ready  language  wrhich  comes 
from  always  jostling  with  nimble 
wits.  But  as  they  stood  there,  each 
saw  a  Man  and  an  Equal. 

[35] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

"  The  great  surgeon  of  St.  Jerome's/' 
said  our  Master  in  further  welcome. 

"Honored  by  praise  from  your 
lips!"  Thus  the  man  of  the  city 
lightly  turned  the  compliment,  and 
extended  his  hand,  which  the  Master 
took  slowly,  gazing  meanwhile  stead- 
ily at  his  guest. 

"Pray  come  into  my  house,"  said 
the  Master  of  the  Inn,  with  more 
stateliness  of  manner  than  he  usually 
had  with  a  new  Brother.  But,  it  may 
be  said,  Dr.  Augustus  Norton  had 
the  most  distinguished  name  of  that 
day  in  his  profession.  He  followed 
the  Master  to  his  study,  with  uncer- 
tain steps,  and  sinking  into  a  deep 
chair  before  the  smouldering  ashes 
looked  at  his  host  with  a  sad  grin — 
"Perhaps  you'll  give  me  something — 
the  journey,  you  know  ?  .  .  ." 

[36] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

Two  years  before  the  head  surgeon 
of  St.  Jerome's  had  come  to  the 
hospital  of  a  morning  to  perform 
some  operation — one  of  those  affairs 
for  which  he  was  known  from  coast 
to  coast.  As  he  entered  the  officers' 
room  that  day,  with  the  arrogant 
eye  of  the  commander-in-chief,  one 
of  his  aides  looked  at  him  sus- 
piciously, then  glanced  again — and 
the  great  surgeon  felt  those  eyes  upon 
him  when  he  turned  his  back.  And  he 
knew  why!  Something  was  wrong 
with  him.  Nevertheless  in  glum  si- 
lence he  made  ready  to  operate.  But 
when  the  moment  came,  and  he  was 
about  to  take  the  part  of  God  toward 
the  piece  of  flesh  lying  in  the  ether 
sleep  before  him,  he  hesitated.  Then, 
in  the  terrible  recoil  of  Fear,  he 
turned  back. 

[37] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

"Macroe!"  he  cried  to  his  assistant, 
"  you  will  have  to  operate.  I  cannot — 
I  am  not  well!" 

There  was  almost  panic,  but  Mac- 
roe  was  a  man,  too,  and  proceeded 
to  do  his  work  without  a  word.  The 
great  surgeon,  his  hands  now  trem- 
bling beyond  disguise,  went  back  to 
the  officers'  room,  took  off  his  white 
robes,  and  returned  to  his  home. 
There  he  wrote  his  resignation  to  the 
directors  of  St.  Jerome's,  and  his 
resignation  from  other  offices  of 
honor  and  responsibility.  Then  he 
sent  for  a  medical  man,  an  old 
friend,  and  held  out  his  shaking  hand 
to  him: 

"The  damn  thing  won't  go,"  he 
said,  pointing  also  to  his  head. 

"Too  much  work,"  the  doctor  re- 
plied, of  course. 

[38] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

But  the  great  surgeon,  who  was  a 
man  of  clear  views,  added  imperson- 
ally, "  Too  much  everything,  I  guess ! " 

There  followed  the  usual  prescrip- 
tion, making  the  sick  man  a  wanderer 
and  pariah — first  to  Europe,  "to  get 
rid  of  me,"  the  surgeon  growled; 
then  to  Georgia  for  golf,  to  Montana 
for  elk,  to  Canada  for  salmon,  and  so 
forth.  Each  time  the  sick  man  re- 
turned with  a  thin  coat  of  tan  that 
peeled  off  in  a  few  days,  and  with 
those  shaking  hands  that  suggested 
immediately  another  journey  to  an- 
other climate.  Until  it  happened 
finally  that  the  men  of  St.  Jerome's 
who  had  first  talked  of  the  date  of 
their  chief's  return  merely  raised 
then*  eyebrows  at  the  mention  of  his 
name. 

"Done  for,  poor  old  boy!"  and  the 

[39] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

great  surgeon  read  it  with  his  lynx 
eyes,  in  the  faces  of  the  men  he  met 
at  his  clubs.  His  mouth  drew  to- 
gether sourly  and  his  back  sloped. 
"Fifty-two,"  he  muttered.  "God, 
that  is  too  early — something  ought  to 
pull  me  together."  So  he  went  on 
trying  this  and  that,  while  his  friends 
said  he  was  "resting,"  until  he  had 
slipped  from  men's  thoughts. 

One  day  Percival  of  St.  Jerome's, 
one  of  those  boys  he  had  growled  at 
and  cursed  in  former  times,  met  him 
crawling  down  the  avenue  to  his 
quietest  club,  and  the  old  surgeon 
took  him  by  the  arm — he  was  gray 
in  face  and  his  neck  was  wasting 
away — and  told  the  story  of  his 
troubles — as  he  would  to  anyone 
these  days.  The  young  man  listened 
respectfully.  Then  he  spoke  of  the  old 

[40] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

Inn,  of  the  Brotherhood,  of  the  Mas- 
ter and  what  he  had  done  for  misera- 
ble men,  who  had  despaired.  The 
famous  surgeon,  shaking  his  head  as 
one  who  has  heard  of  these  miracles 
many  times  and  found  them  naught, 
was  drinking  it  all  in,  nevertheless. 

"He  takes  a  man,"  said  the  young 
surgeon,  "who  doesn't  want  to  live 
and  makes  him  fall  in  love  with  life." 

Dr.  Augustus  Norton  sniffed. 

"In  love  with  life!  That's  good!  If 
your  Wonder  of  the  Ages  can  make 
a  man  of  fifty  fall  in  love  with  any- 
thing, I  must  try  him."  He  laughed 
a  sneering  laugh,  the  feeble  merri- 
ment of  doubt. 

"  Ah, Doctor! "  cried  the  young  man, 
"you  must  go  and  live  with  the  Mas- 
ter. And  then  come  back  to  us  at  St. 
Jerome's:  for  we  need  you!" 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

And  the  great  surgeon,  touched  to 
the  heart  by  these  last  words,  said: 

"Well,  what's  the  name  of  your 
miracle-worker,  and  where  is  he  to 
be  found?  ...  I  might  as  well  try 
all  the  cures — write  a  book  on  'em 
one  of  these  days!"  .  .  . 

So  he  came  by  the  stage  to  the  gate 
of  the  old  Inn,  and  the  Master,  who 
had  been  warned  by  a  telegram  from 
the  young  doctor  only  that  morning, 
stood  at  his  door  to  welcome  his 
celebrated  guest. 

He  put  him  in  the  room  of  state 
above  the  study,  a  great  square  room 
at  the  southwest,  overlooking  the 
wings  and  the  flower-scented  garden, 
the  pool,  and  the  waving  grass  fields 
beyond,  dotted  with  tall  elms — all 
freshly  green. 

"Not  a  bad  sort  of  place,"  mur- 
[421 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

mured  the  weary  man,  "and  there 
must  be  trout  in  those  brooks  up 
yonder.  Well,  it  will  do  for  a  week 
or  two,  if  there's  fishing."  .  .  .  Then 
the  bell  sounded  for  dinner  which 
was  served  for  the  first  time  that 
season  out  of  doors  in  the  soft  twi- 
light. The  Brothers  had  gathered  in 
the  court  beside  the  fountain,  young 
men  and  middle-aged — all  having 
bent  under  some  burden,  which  they 
were  now  learning  to  carry  easily. 
They  stood  about  the  hall  door  until 
the  distinguished  Stranger  appeared, 
and  he  walked  between  them  to  the 
place  of  honor  at  the  Master's  side. 
Every  one  at  the  long  table  was 
named  to  the  great  surgeon,  and 
then  with  the  coming  of  the  soup  he 
was  promptly  forgotten,  while  the 
talk  of  the  day's  work  and  the  mor- 

(43J 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

row's  rose  vigorously  from  all  sides. 
It  was  a  question  of  the  old  mill, 
which  had  given  way.  An  engineer 
among  the  company  described  what 
would  have  to  be  done  to  get  at  the 
foundations.  And  a  young  man  who 
happened  to  sit  next  to  the  surgeon 
explained  that  the  Master  had  re- 
opened an  old  mill  above  the  Inn  in 
the  Intervale,  where  he  ground  corn 
and  wheat  and  rye  with  the  old 
water-wheel;  for  the  country  people, 
who  had  always  got  their  grain 
ground  there,  complained  when  the 
mill  had  been  closed.  It  seemed  to 
the  Stranger  that  the  dark  coarse 
bread  which  was  served  was  extraor- 
dinarily good,  and  he  wondered  if 
the  ancient  process  had  anything  to 
do  with  it  and  he  resolved  to  see  the 
old  mill.  Then  the  young  man  said 
T441 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

something  about  bass:  there  was  a 
cool  lake  up  the  valley,  which  had 
been  stocked.  The  surgeon's  eye 
gleamed.  Did  he  know  how  to  fish 
for  bass!  \Vhy,  before  this  boy — yes, 
he  would  go  at  five  in  the  morning, 
sharp.  .  .  .  After  the  meal,  while  the 
blue  wreaths  of  smoke  floated  across 
the  flowers  and  the  talk  rose  and 
fell  in  the  court,  the  Master  and  his 
new  guest  were  seated  alone  beneath 
the  great  elm.  The  surgeon  could 
trace  the  Master's  face  in  the  still 
waters  of  the  pool  at  their  feet,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  like  a  finely  cut 
cameo,  with  gentle  lines  about  the 
mouth  and  eyes  that  relieved  the 
thick  nose.  Nevertheless  he  knew  by 
certain  instinct  that  they  were  not  of 
the  same  kind.  The  Master  was  very 
silent  this  night,  and  his  guest  felt 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

that  some  mystery,  some  vacuum 
existed  between  them,  as  he  gazed  on 
the  face  in  the  water.  It  was  as  if  the 
old  man  were  holding  him  off  at 
arm's  length  while  he  looked  into 
him.  But  the  great  surgeon,  who  was 
used  to  the  amenities  of  city  life,  re- 
solved to  make  his  host  talk: 

"Extraordinary  sort  of  place  you 
have  here!  I  don't  know  that  I  have 
ever  seen  anything  just  like  it.  And 
what  is  your  System?" 

"What  is  my  System?"  repeated 
the  Master  wonderingly. 

"Yes!  Your  method  of  building 
these  fellows  up — electricity,  diet, 
massage,  baths — what  is  your  line?" 
An  urbane  smile  removed  the  offence 
of  the  banter. 

"I  have  no  System!"  the  Master 
replied  thoughtfully.  "I  live  my  life 

(46] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

here  with  my  work,  and  those  you  see 
come  and  live  with  me  as  my  friends.'* 

"Ah,  but  you  have  ideas  .  .  .  extraor- 
dinary success  ...  so  many  cases," 
the  great  man  muttered,  confused 
by  the  Master's  steady  gaze. 

"You  will  learn  more  about  us 
after  you  have  been  here  a  little  time. 
You  will  see,  and  the  others  will  help 
you  to  understand.  To-morrow  we 
work  at  the  mill,  and  the  next  day 
we  shall  be  in  the  gardens — but  you 
may  be  too  tired  to  join  us.  And  we 
bathe  here,  morning  and  noon.  Har- 
vey will  tell  you  all  our  customs." 

The  celebrated  surgeon  of  St.  Jer- 
ome's wrote  that  night  to  an  old 
friend:  "And  the  learned  doctor's 
prescription  seems  to  be  to  dig  in 
the  garden  and  bathe  hi  a  great 
pool!  A  daffy  sort  of  place — but  I 

[47] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

am  going  bass  fishing  to-morrow  at 
five  with  a  young  man,  who  is  just 
the  right  age  for  a  son!  So  to  bed, 
but  I  suspect  that  I  shall  see  you 
soon — novelties  wear  out  quickly  at 
my  years." 

Just  here  there  entered  that  lovely 
night  wind,  rising  far  away  beyond 
the  low  lakes  to  the  south — it  soughed 
through  the  room,  swaying  the  dra- 
peries, sighing,  sighing,  and  it  blew 
out  the  candle.  The  sick  man  looked 
down  on  the  court  below,  white  in 
the  moonlight,  and  his  eyes  roved 
farther  to  the  dark  orchard,  and  the 
great  barns  and  the  huddled  cattle. 

"Quite  a  bit  of  country  here!"  the 
surgeon  murmured.  As  he  stood 
there  looking  into  the  misty  light 
which  covered  the  Intervale,  up  to 
the  great  hills  above  which  floated 

[48] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

luminous  cloud  banks,  the  chorus  of 
an  old  song  rose  from  below  where 
the  pipes  gleamed  in  the  dark  about 
the  pool.  He  leaned  out  into  the  air, 
filled  with  all  the  wild  scent  of  green 
fields,  and  added  under  a  sort  of 
compulsion — "And  a  good  place, 
enough!" 

He  went  to  bed  to  a  deep  sleep,  and 
over  his  tired,  worldly  face  the  night 
wind  passed  gently,  stripping  leaf  by 
leaf  from  his  weary  mind  that  heavy 
coating  of  care  which  he  had  wrapped 
about  him  in  the  course  of  many 
years. 

Dr.  Augustus  Norton  did  not  re- 
turn at  the  end  of  one  week,  nor  of 
two.  The  city  saw  him,  indeed,  no 
more  that  year.  It  was  said  that 
a  frisky,  rosy  ghost  of  the  great 

[49] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

surgeon  had  slipped  into  St.  Jer- 
ome's near  Christmas — had  skipped 
through  a  club  or  two  and  shaken 
hands  about  pretty  generally — and 
disappeared.  Sometimes  letters  came 
from  him  with  an  out-of-the-way 
postmark  on  them,  saying  in  a  jest- 
ing tone  that  he  was  studying  the 
methods  of  an  extraordinary  country 
doctor,  who  seemed  to  cure  men  by 
touch.  "He  lives  up  here  among  the 
hills  in  forty  degrees  of  frost,  and  if 
I  am  not  mistaken  he  is  nearer  the 
Secret  than  all  of  you  pill  slingers" — 
(for  he  was  writing  a  mere  doctor  of 
medicine!).  "Anyhow  I  shall  stay  on 
until  I  learn  the  Secret — or  my  host 
turns  me  out;  for  life  up  here  seems 
as  good  to  me  as  ice-cream  and  kisses 
to  a  girl  of  sixteen.  .  .  .  Why  should 
I  go  back  mucking  about  with  you 

[50] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

fellows — just  yet?  I  caught  a  five- 
pounder  yesterday,  and  ate  him!" 

There  are  many  stories  of  the  great 
surgeon  that  have  come  to  me  from 
those  days.  He  was  much  liked,  es- 
pecially by  the  younger  men,  after 
the  first  gloom  had  worn  off,  and  he 
began  to  feel  the  blood  run  once 
more.  He  had  a  joking  way  with  him 
that  made  him  a  good  table  com- 
panion, and  the  Brothers  pretending 
that  he  would  become  the  historian 
of  the  order  taught  him  all  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  place.  "But  the  Secret, 
the  Secret!  Where  is  it?"  he  would 
demand  jestingly.  One  night — it  was 
at  table  and  all  were  there — Harvey 
asked  him: 

"Has  the  Master  confessed  you?" 
"  *  Confessed    me '  ?  "    repeated   the 
surgeon.  "What's  that?" 

[51] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

A  sudden  silence  fell  on  all,  because 
this  was  the  one  thing  never  spoken 
of,  at  least  in  public.  Then  the  Mas- 
ter, who  had  been  silent  all  that  even- 
ing, turned  the  talk  to  other  matters. 

The  Master,  to  be  sure,  gave  this 
distinguished  guest  all  liberties,  and 
they  often  talked  together  as  men  of 
the  same  profession.  And  the  sur- 
geon witnessed  all — the  mending  of 
the  mill,  the  planting  and  the  hoeing 
and  the  harvesting,  the  preparations 
for  the  long  winter,  the  chopping  and 
the  road-making — all,  and  he  tested 
it  with  his  hands.  "Not  bad  sport," 
he  would  say,  "with  so  many  sick- 
well  young  men  about  to  help!" 

But  meanwhile  the  "secret"  es- 
caped the  keen  mind,  though  he 
sought  for  it  daily. 

"You  give  no  drugs,  Doctor,"  he 

[52] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

complained.  "You're  a  scab  on  the 
profession!" 

"The  drugs  gave  out,"  the  Master 
explained,  "and  I  neglected  to  order 
more.  .  .  .  There's  always  Bert  Wil- 
liams at  Stowe,  who  can  give  you 
anything  you  might  want — shall  I 
send  for  him,  Doctor?" 

There  was  laughter  all  about,  and 
when  it  died  down  the  great  surgeon 
returned  to  the  attack. 

"Well,  come,  tell  us  now  what  you 
do  believe  in?  Magic,  the  laying  on 
of  hands?  Come,  there  are  four 
doctors  here,  and  we  have  the  right 
to  know — or  we'll  report  you!" 

"I  believe,"  said  the  Master  sol- 
emnly, in  reply  to  the  banter,  "I  be- 
lieve in  Man  and  in  God."  And 
there  followed  such  talk  as  had 
never  been  in  the  old  hall;  for  the 

[53] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

surgeon  was,  after  his  kind,  a  ma- 
terialist and  pushed  the  Master  for 
definition.  The  Master  believed,  as  I 
recall  it,  that  Disease  could  not  be 
cured,  for  the  most  part.  No  chem- 
istry would  ever  solve  the  mystery  of 
pain!  But  Disease  could  be  ignored, 
and  the  best  way  to  forget  pain  was 
through  labor.  Not  labor  merely  for 
oneself;  but  also  something  for  others. 
Wherefore  the  School,  around  which 
the  Inn  and  the  farm  and  all  had 
grown.  For  he  told  us  then  that  he 
had  bought  the  Inn  as  a  home  for 
his  boys,  the  waste  product  of  the 
city.  Finding  the  old  tavern  too 
small  for  his  purpose  and  seeing  how 
he  should  need  helpers,  he  had  en- 
couraged ailing  men  to  come  to  live 
with  him  and  to  cure  themselves  by 
curing  others.  Without  that  School 
(M] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

below  in  the  valley,  with  its  work- 
shops and  cottages,  there  would  have 
been  no  Inn! 

As  for  God — that  night  he  would 
go  no  further,  and  the  surgeon  said 
rather  flippantly,  we  all  thought,  that 
the  Master  had  left  little  room  in  his 
world  for  God,  anyhow — he  had 
made  man  so  large.  It  was  a  stormy 
August  evening,  I  remember,  when 
we  had  been  forced  to  dine  within 
on  account  of  the  gusty  rain  that  had 
come  after  a  still,  hot  day.  The  valley 
seemed  filled  with  murk,  which  was 
momentarily  torn  by  fire,  revealing 
the  trembling  leaves  upon  the  trees. 
AYhen  we  passed  through  the  arcade 
to  reach  our  rooms,  the  surgeon 
pointed  out  into  this  sea  of  fire  and 
darkness,  and  muttered  with  a  touch 
of  irony — 

[55] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

"HE  seems  to  be  talking  for  him- 
self this  evening!" 

Just  then  a  bolt  shot  downward, 
revealing  with  large  exaggeration  the 
hills,  the  folded  valleys — the  de- 
scents. 

"It's  like  standing  on  a  thin  plank 
in  a  turbulent  sea!"  the  surgeon  re- 
marked wryly.  "Ah,  my  boy,  Life's 
like  that!"  and  he  disappeared  into 
his  room. 

Nevertheless,  it  was  that  night  he 
wrote  to  his  friend:  "I  am  getting 
nearer  this  Mystery,  which  I  take  to 
be,  the  inner  heart  of  it,  a  mixture 
of  the  Holy  Ghost  and  Sweat — with 
a  good  bath  afterward!  But  the  old 
boy  is  the  mixer  of  the  Pills,  mind 
you,  and  he  is  a  Master!  Most  likely 
I  shall  never  get  hold  of  the  heart  of 
it ;  for  somehow,  yet  with  all  courtesy, 

[56] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

he  keeps  me  at  a  distance.  I  have 
never  been  'confessed,'  whatever  that 
may  be — an  experience  that  comes  to 
the  youngest  boy  among  them!  Per- 
haps the  Doctor  thinks  that  old  fel- 
lows like  you  and  me  have  only  dead 
sins  to  confess,  which  would  crumble 
to  dust  if  exposed.  But  there  is  a 
sting  in  very  old  sins,  I  think — for 
instance — oh!  if  you  were  here  to- 
night, I  should  be  as  foolish  as  a 
woman.  ..." 

The  storm  that  night  struck  one  of 
the  school  buildings  and  killed  a  lad. 
In  the  morning  the  Master  and  the 
surgeon  set  out  for  the  School  Village, 
which  was  lower  in  the  valley  beyond 
Albany.  It  was  warm  and  clear  at 
the  Inn;  but  thick  mist  wreaths  still 
lay  heavily  over  the  Intervale.  The 
hills  all  about  glittered  as  in  October, 

(57] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

and  there  was  in  the  air  that  laughing 
peace,  that  breath  of  sweet  plenty 
which  comes  the  morning  after  a 
storm.  The  two  men  followed  the 
foot-path,  which  wound  downward 
from  the  Inn  across  the  Intervale. 
The  sun  filled  the  windless  air,  suck- 
ing up  the  spicy  odors  of  the  tangled 
path — fern  and  balsam  and  the 
mother  scent  of  earth  and  rain  and 
sun.  The  new  green  rioted  over  the 
dead  leaves.  .  .  .  The  Master  close- 
ly observing  his  guest,  remarked: 

"You  seem  quite  well,  Doctor.  I 
suppose  you  will  be  leaving  us  soon  ?" 

"Leaving?"  the  surgeon  questioned 
slowly,  as  if  a  secret  dread  had  risen 
at  the  Master's  hint  of  departure. 
"Yes,"  he  admitted,  after  a  time, 
"I  suppose  I  am  what  you  would  call 
well — well  enough.  But  something 

[58] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

still  clogs  within  me.  It  may  be  the 
memory  of  Fear.  I  am  afraid  of  my- 
self!" 

"Afraid?  You  need  some  test,  per- 
haps. That  will  come  sooner  or  later; 
we  need  not  hurry  it!" 

"No,  we  need  not  hurry!" 

Yet  he  knew  well  enough  that  the 
Inn  never  sheltered  drones,  and  that 
many  special  indulgences  had  been 
granted  him :  he  had  borrowed  freely 
from  the  younger  Brothers — of  their 
time  and  strength.  He  thought  com- 
placently of  the  large  cheque  which 
he  should  drop  into  the  house-box  on 
his  departure.  \Yith  it  the  Master 
would  be  able  to  build  a  new  cot- 
tage or  a  small  hospital  for  the 
School. 

"  Some  of  them,"  mused  the  Master, 
"  never  go  back  to  the  machine  that 

[59] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

once  broke  them.  They  stay  about 
here  and  help  me — buy  a  farm  and 
revert!  But  for  the  most  part  they 
are  keen  to  get  back  to  the  fight,  as 
is  right  and  best.  Sometimes  when 
they  loiter  too  long,  I  shove  them  out 
of  the  nest!" 

"And  I  am  near  the  shoving  point  ?" 
his  companion  retorted  quickly.  "So 
I  must  leave  all  your  dear  boys  and 
Peace  and  Fishing  and  you!  Suppose 
so,  suppose  so!  ...  Doctor,  you've 
saved  my  life — oh,  hang  it,  that 
doesn't  tell  the  story.  But  even 
/  can  feel  what  it  is  to  live  at  the 
Inn!" 

Instinctively  he  grasped  his  host  by 
the  arm — he  was  an  impulsive  man. 
But  the  Master's  arm  did  not  re- 
spond to  the  clasp;  indeed,  a  slight 
shiver  seemed  to  shake  it,  so  that  the 

[60] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

surgeon's  hand  fell  away  while  the 
Master  said: 

"I  am  glad  to  have  been  of  service 
— to  you — yes,  especially  to  you.  .  .  ." 

They  came  into  the  school  village, 
a  tiny  place  of  old  white  houses, 
very  clean  and  trim,  with  a  number 
of  sweeping  elms  along  the  narrow 
road.  A  mountain  brook  turned  an 
old  water-wheel,  supplying  power 
for  the  workshops  where  the  boys 
were  trained.  The  great  surgeon  had 
visited  the  place  many  times  in  com- 
pany with  the  Master,  and  though 
he  admired  the  order  and  economy 
of  the  institution,  and  respected  its 
purpose — that  is,  to  create  men  out 
of  the  refuse  of  society — to  tell  the 
truth,  the  place  bored  him  a  trifle. 
This  morning  they  went  directly  to 
the  little  cottage  that  served  as  in- 

[61] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

firmary,  where  the  dead  boy  had 
been  brought.  He  was  a  black-haired 
Italian,  and  his  lips  curved  upward 
pleasantly.  The  Master  putting  his 
hand  on  the  dead  boy's  brow  as  he 
might  have  done  in  life  stood  looking 
at  the  face. 

"I've  got  a  case  in  the  next  room, 
I'd  like  to  have  your  opinion  on, 
Doctor,"  the  young  physician  said 
in  a  low  tone  to  the  surgeon,  and  the 
two  crossed  the  passage  into  the 
neighboring  room.  The  surgeon  fast- 
ened his  eyes  on  the  sick  lad's  body : 
here  was  a  case  he  understood,  a 
problem  with  a  solution.  The  old 
Master  coming  in  from  the  dead 
stood  behind  the  two. 

"Williams,"  the  surgeon  said,  "it's 
so,  sure  enough — you  must  operate — 
at  once!" 

[62] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  IXN7 

"I  was  afraid  it  was  that,"  the 
younger  man  replied.  "  But  how  can 
I  operate  here?" 

The  surgeon  shrugged  his  shoulders 
—  "He  would  never  reach  the  city!" 

"Then  I  must,  you  think— 

The  shrewd  surgeon  recognized 
Fear  in  the  young  man's  voice.  Quick 
the  thrill  shot  through  his  nerves,  and 
he  cried,  "I  will  operate,  now?." 

In  hah*  an  hour  it  was  over,  and  the 
Master  and  the  surgeon  were  leaving 
the  village,  climbing  up  by  the  steep 
path  under  the  blazing  noon  sun. 
The  Master  glanced  at  the  man  by 
his  side,  who  strode  along  confidently, 
a  trifle  of  a  swagger  in  his  buoyant 
steps.  The  Master  remarked: 

"The  test  came,  and  you  took  it — 
splendidly." 

"Yes,"  the  great  surgeon  replied, 

[63] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

smiling  happily,  "it's  all  there,  Doc- 
tor, the  old  power.  I  believe  I  am 
about  ready  to  get  into  harness 
again!"  After  they  had  walked  more 
of  the  way  without  speaking,  the 
surgeon  added,  as  to  himself — "But 
there  are  other  things  to  be  feared!" 
Though  the  Master  looked  at  him 
closely  he  invited  no  explanation,  and 
they  finished  their  homeward  walk 
without  remark. 

It  soon  got  about  among  the  in- 
mates of  the  Inn  what  a  wonderful 
operation  the  surgeon  of  St.  Jerome's 
had  performed,  and  it  was  rumored 
that  at  the  beginning  of  autumn  he 
would  go  back  to  his  old  position. 
Meantime  the  great  surgeon  enjoyed 
the  homage  that  men  always  pay  to 
power,  the  consideration  of  his  fel- 

[64] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

lows.  He  had  been  much  liked;  but 
now  that  the  Brothers  knew  how 
soon  he  was  to  leave  them,  they  sur- 
rounded him  with  those  attentions 
that  men  most  love,  elevating  him 
almost  to  the  rank  of  the  Master — 
and  they  feared  him  less.  His  fame 
spread,  so  that  from  some  mill  be- 
yond Stowe  they  brought  to  the  Tnn 
a  desperate  case,  and  the  surgeon 
operated  again  successfully,  demon- 
strating that  he  was  once  more  mas- 
ter of  his  art,  and  master  of  himself. 
So  he  stayed  on  merely  to  enjoy  his 
triumph  and  escape  the  dull  season 
in  the  city. 

It  was  a  wonderful  summer,  that! 
The  fitful  temper  of  the  north  played 
in  all  its  moods.  There  were  days 
when  the  sun  shone  tropically  down 
into  the  valleys,  without  a  breath  of 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

air,  when  the  earthy,  woodsy  smells 
were  strong — and  the  nights — perfect 
stillness  and  peace,  as  if  some  spirit 
of  the  air  were  listening  for  love 
words  on  the  earth.  The  great  elms 
along  Albany  road  hung  their 
branches  motionless,  and  when  the 
moon  came  over  behind  the  house 
the  great  hills  began  to  swim  ghostly, 
vague — beyond,  always  beyond!  .  .  . 
And  then  there  were  the  fierce  storms 
that  swept  up  the  valley  and  hung 
growling  along  the  hills  for  days,  and 
afterward,  sky- washed  and  clear, 
the  westerly  breeze  would  come  tear- 
ing down  the  Intervale,  drying  the 
earth  before  it. ...  But  each  day  there 
was  a  change  in  the  sound  and  the 
smell  of  the  fields  a^id  the  woods — 
in  the  quick  race  of  the  northern 
summer — a  change  that  the  surgeon, 

[66] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

fishing  up  the  tiny  streams,  felt  and 
noted.  Each  day,  so  radiant  with  its 
abundant  life,  sounded  some  under- 
note  of  fulfilment  and  change — 
speaking  beforehand  of  death  to 
come. 

Toward  the  end  of  August  a  snap 
of  cold  drove  us  in-doors  for  the  night 
meal.  Then  around  the  fire  there  was 
great  talk  between  the  Master  and 
the  surgeon,  a  sort  of  battle  of  the 
soul,  to  which  we  others  paid  silent 
attention.  For  wherever  those  nights 
the 'talk  might  rise,  in  the  little  rills 
of  accidental  words,  it  always  flowed 
down  to  the  deep  underlying  thoughts 
of  men.  And  in  those  depths,  as  I 
said,  these  two  wrestled  with  each 
other.  The  Master,  who  had  grown 
silent  of  late  years,  woke  once  more 
with  fire.  The  light,  keen  thrusts  of 

[67] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

the  surgeon,  who  argued  like  a 
fencer,  roused  his  whole  being;  and 
as  day  by  day  it  went  on  we  who 
watched  saw  that  in  a  way  the  talk 
of  these  two  men  set  forth  the  great 
conflict  of  conflicts,  that  deepest 
fissure  of  life  and  belief  anent  the 
Soul  and  the  Body.  And  the  Master, 
who  had  lived  his  faiths  by  his  life 
before  our  eyes,  was  being  worsted 
in  the  argument!  The  great  surgeon 
had  the  better  mind,  and  he  had 
seen  all  of  life  that  one  may  see  with 
eyes.  .  .  . 

They  were  talking  of  the  day  of 
departure  for  the  distinguished  guest, 
and  arranging  for  some  kind  of  tri- 
umphal procession  to  escort  him  to 
White  River.  But  he  would  not  set 
the  time,  shrinking  from  this  act,  as 
if  all  were  not  yet  done.  There  came 

[68] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

a  warm,  glowing  day  early  in  Sep- 
tember, and  at  night  after  the  pipes 
were  lighted  the  surgeon  and  the 
Master  strolled  off  in  the  direction 
of  the  pool,  arm  in  arm.  There  had 
been  no  talk  that  day,  the  surgeon 
apparently  shrinking  from  coming  to 
the  last  grapple  with  one  whose 
faiths  were  so  important  to  him  as 
the  Master's. 

"The  flowers  are  dying:  they  tell 
me  it's  time  to  move  on,"  said  the 
surgeon.  "And  yet,  my  dear  host,  I 
go  without  the  Secret,  without  under- 
standing All!'' 

"Perhaps  there  is  no  inner  Secret," 
the  Master  smiled.  "It  is  all  here 
before  you." 

"I  know  that — you  have  been  very 
good  to  me,  shared  everything.  If  I 
have  not  learned  the  Secret,  it  is  my 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

fault,  my  incapacity.  But — "  and  the 
gay  tone  dropped  quickly  and  a 
flash  of  bitterness  succeeded —  "I  at 
least  know  that  there  is  a  Secret!" 

They  sat  down  on  the  marble  bench 
and  looked  into  the  water,  each  think- 
ing his  thoughts.  Suddenly  the  sur- 
geon began  to  speak,  hesitantly,  as  if 
there  had  long  been  something  in  his 
mind  that  he  was  compelled  to  say. 

"My  friend,"  he  said,  "I  too  have 
something  to  tell — the  cause  within 
the  cause,  the  reason  of  the  reason — 
at  least,  sometimes  I  think  it  is !  The 
root  reason  for  all — unhappiness,  de- 
feat, for  the  shaking  hand  and  the 
jesting  voice.  And  I  want  you  to  hear 
it — if  you  will." 

The  Master  raised  his  face  from  the 
pool  but  said  never  a  word.  The  sur- 
geon continued,  his  voice  trembling 

[70] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

at  times,  though  he  spoke  slowly, 
evidently  trying  to  banish  all  feeling. 
"  It  is  a  common  enough  story  at  the 
start,  at  least  among  men  of  our  kind. 
You  know  that  I  was  trained  largely 
in  Europe.  My  father  had  the  means 
to  give  me  the  best,  and  time  to  take 
it  in.  So  I  was  over  there,  before  I 
came  back  to  St.  Jerome's,  three, 
four  years  at  Paris,  Munich,  Vienna, 
all  about.  .  .  .  While  I  was  away  I 
lived  as  the  others,  for  the  most  part 
— you  know  our  profession — and 
youth.  The  rascals  are  pretty  much 
the  same  to-day,  I  judge  from  what 
my  friends  say  of  their  sons !  Well,  at 
least  I  worked  like  the  devil,  and 
was  decent.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  isn't  for  that 
I'm  telling  the  tale!  I  was  ambitious, 
then.  And  the  time  came  to  go  back, 
as  it  does  in  the  end,  and  I  took  a 

[71] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

few  weeks'  run  through  Italy  as  a 
final  taste  of  the  lovely  European 
thing,  and  came  down  to  Naples 
to  get  the  boat  for  New  York.  I've 
never  been  back  to  Naples  since, 
and  that  was  twenty-six  years  ago 
this  autumn.  But  I  can  see  the  city 
always  as  it  was  then!  The  seeth- 
ing human  hive — the  fellows  piling 
in  the  freight  to  the  music  of  their 
songs — the  fiery  mouth  of  Vesuvius 
up  above.  And  the  soft,  dark  night 
with  just  a  plash  of  waves  on  the 
quay!" 

The  Master  listened,  his  eyes  again 
buried  in  the  water  at  their  feet. 

"Well,  she  was  there  on  board,  of 
course — looking  out  also  into  that 
warm  dark  night  and  sighing  for  all 
that  was  to  be  lost  so  soon.  There 
were  few  passengers  in  those  days. 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

.  .  .  She  was  my  countrywoman,  and 
beautiful,  and  there  was  something — 
at  least  so  I  thought  then — of  especial 
sweetness  in  her  eyes,  something 
strong  in  her  heart.  She  was  engaged 
to  a  man  living  somewhere  in  the 
States,  and  she  was  going  back  to 
marry  him.  Why  she  was  over  there 
then  I  forget,  and  it  is  of  no  im- 
portance. I  think  that  the  man 
was  a  doctor,  too — in  some  small 
city.  ...  I  loved  her!" 

The  Master  raised  his  eyes  from 
the  pool  and  leaning  on  his  folded 
arms  looked  into  the  surgeon's  face. 

"I  am  afraid  I  never  thought  much 
about  that  other  fellow — never  have  to 
this  day !  That  was  part  of  the  brute 
I  am — to  see  only  what  is  before 
my  eyes.  And  I  knew  by  the  time 
we  had  swung  into  the  Atlantic  that 

[73] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

I  wanted  that  woman  as  I  had  never 
wanted  things  before.  She  stirred  me, 
mind  and  all.  Of  course  it  might  have 
been  some  one  else — any  one  you 
will  say — and  if  she  had  been  an 
ordinary  young  girl,  it  might  have 
gone  differently?  It  is  one  of  the 
things  we  can't  tell  in  this  life.  There 
was  something  in  that  woman  that 
was  big  all  through  and  roused  the 
spirit  in  me.  I  never  knew  man  or 
woman  who  thirsted  more  for  great- 
ness, for  accomplishment.  Perhaps 
the  man  she  was  to  marry  gave  her 
little  to  hope  for — probably  it  was 
some  raw  boy-and-girl  affair  such  as 
we  have  in  America.  .  .  .  The  days 
went  by,  and  it  was  clearer  to  both 
of  us  what  must  be.  But  we  didn't 
speak  of  it.  She  found  in  me,  I  sup- 
pose, the  power,  the  sort  of  thing  she 
[74] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

had  missed  in  the  other.  I  was  to  do 
all  those  grand  things  she  was  so  hot 
after.  I  have  done  some  of  them  too. 
But  that  was  when  she  had  gone 
and  I  no  longer  needed  her.  ...  I 
needed  her  then,  and  I  took  her — 
that  is  all. 

"The  detail  is  old  and  dim — and 
what  do  you  care  to  hear  of  a  young 
man's  loves!  Before  we  reached  port 
it  was  understood  between  us.  I  told 
her  I  wanted  her  to  leave  the  other 
chap — he  was  never  altogether  clear 
to  me — and  to  marry  me  as  soon  as 
she  could.  We  did  not  stumble  or 
slide  into  it,  not  in  the  least:  we 
looked  it  through  and  through — that 
was  her  kind  and  mine.  How  she 
loved  to  look  life  in  the  face!  I  have 
found  few  women  who  like  that. 
...  In  the  end  she  asked  me  not  to 

[75] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

come  near  her  the  last  day.  She 
would  write  me  the  day  after  we  had 
landed,  either  yes  or  no.  So  she 
kissed  me,  and  we  parted  still  out 
at  sea." 

All  the  Brothers  had  left  the  court 
and  the  arcades,  where  they  had  been 
strolling,  and  old  Sam  was  putting 
out  the  Inn  lights.  But  the  two  men 
beside  the  pool  made  no  movement. 
The  west  wind  still  drew  in  down  the 
valley  with  summer  warmth  and  ruf- 
fled the  water  at  their  feet. 

"My  father  met  me  at  the  dock — 
you  know  he  was  the  first  surgeon  at 
St.  Jerome's  before  me.  My  mother 
was  with  him.  .  .  .  But  as  she  kissed 
me  I  was  thinking  of  that  letter.  .  .  . 
I  knew  it  would  come.  Some  things 
must!  Well,  it  came." 

The  silent  listener  bent  his  head, 

[76] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

and  the  surgeon  mused  on  his  pas- 
sionate memory.  At  last  the  Master 
whispered  in  a  low  voice  that  hardly 
reached  into  the  night: 

"Did  you  make  her  happy?'* 

The  surgeon  did  not  answer  the 
question  at  once. 

"Did  you  make  her  happy?"  the 
old  man  demanded  again,  and  his 
voice  trembled  this  time  with  such 
intensity  that  his  companion  looked 
at  him  wonderingly.  And  in  those 
dark  eyes  of  the  Master's  he  read 
something  that  made  him  shrink 
away.  Then  for  the  third  time  the  old 
man  demanded  sternly: 

"Tell  me — did  you  make  her 
happy?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  one  who  had  a 
right  to  know,  and  the  surgeon  whis- 
pered back  slowly: 

[77] 


THE  MASTER  OP  THE  INN 

"Happy?  No,  my  God!  Perhaps 
at  first,  in  the  struggle,  a  little.  But 
afterward  there  was  too  much — too 
many  things.  It  went,  the  inspira- 
tion and  the  love.  I  broke  her  heart 
— she  left  me!  That — that  is  my 
Reason!" 

"It  is  the  Reason!  For  you  took  all, 
all — you  let  her  give  all,  and  you 
gave  her — what?" 

"Nothing — she  died." 

"I  know — she  died." 

The  Master  had  risen,  and  with 
folded  arms  faced  his  guest,  a  pitying 
look  in  his  eyes.  The  surgeon  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands,  and  after  a 
long  time  said: 

"So  you  knew  this?" 

"Yes,  I  knew!" 

"And  knowing  you  let  me  come 
here.  You  took  me  into  your  house, 

[78] 


THE  MASTER  Ot   THE  INN 

you  healed  me,  you  gave  me  back  my 
life!" 

And  the  Master  replied  with  a  firm 
voice: 

"I  knew,  and  I  gave  you  back  your 
life."  In  a  little  while  he  explained 
more  softly:  "You  and  I  are  no 
longer  young  men  who  feel  hotly  and 
settle  such  a  matter  with  hate.  We 
cannot  quarrel  now  for  the  possession 
of  a  woman.  .  .  .  She  chose:  remem- 
ber that!  ...  It  was  twenty-six  years 
this  September.  We  have  lived  our 
lives,  you  and  I;  we  have  lived  out 
our  lives,  the  good  and  the  evil.  Why 
should  we  now  for  the  second  time 
add  passion  to  sorrow?" 

"And  yet  knowing  all  you  took  me 
in!" 

"Yes!"  the  old  man  cried  almost 
proudly.  "And  I  have  made  you 

[79] 


THE  MASTER  OP  THE  INN 

again  what  you  once  were.  .  .  .  What 
she  loved  as  you,"  he  added  to  him- 
self, "a  man  full  of  Power." 

Then  they  were  speechless  in  face 
of  the  fact :  the  one  had  taken  all  and 
the  sweet  love  turned  to  acid  in  his 
heart,  and  the  other  had  lost  and 
the  bitter  turned  to  sweet!  When 
a  long  time  had  passed  the  surgeon 
spoke  timidly: 

"It  might  have  been  so  different 
for  her  with  you!  You  loved  her — 
more." 

There  was  the  light  of  a  compas- 
sionate smile  on  the  Master's  lips  as 
he  replied: 

"Yes,  I  loved  her,  too." 

"And  it  changed  things — for  you!" 

"It  changed  things.  There  might 
have  been  my  St.  Jerome's — my 
fame  also.  Instead,  I  came  here  with 

[80] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

my  boys.  And  here  I  shall  die,  please 
God." 

The  old  Master  then  became  silent, 
his  face  set  in  a  dream  of  life,  as  it 
was,  as  it  would  have  been;  while 
the  great  surgeon  of  St.  Jerome's 
thought  such  thoughts  as  had  never 
passed  before  into  his  mind.  The 
night  wind  had  died  at  this  late 
hour,  and  in  its  place  there  was  a 
coldness  of  the  turning  season.  The 
stars  shone  near  the  earth  and  all 
was  silent  with  the  peace  of  mys- 
teries. The  Master  looked  at  the  man 
beside  him  and  said  calmly: 

"It  is  well  as  it  is— all  well!" 

At  last  the  surgeon  rose  and  stood 
before  the  Master. 

"I  have  learned  the  Secret,"  he 
said,  "and  now  it  is  time  for  me  to 

go-" 

(81] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

He  went  up  to  the  house  through 
the  little  court  and  disappeared  with- 
in the  Inn,  while  the  Master  sat  by 
the  pool,  his  face  graven  like  the 
face  of  an  old. man,  who  has  seen  the 
circle  of  life  and  understands.  .  .  . 
The  next  morning  there  was  much 
talk  about  Dr.  Norton's  disappear- 
ance, until  some  one  explained  that 
the  surgeon  had  been  suddenly  called 
back  to  the  city. 

The  news  spread  through  the 
Brotherhood  one  winter  that  the  old 
Inn  had  been  burned  to  the  ground, 
a  bitter  December  night  when  all 
the  water-taps  were  frozen.  And  the 
Master,  who  had  grown  deaf  of  late, 
had  been  caught  in  his  remote  cham- 
ber, and  burned  or  rather  suffocated. 
There  were  few  men  in  the  Inn  at 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

the  time,  it  being  the  holiday  season, 
and  when  they  had  fought  their  way 
to  the  old  man's  room,  they  found 
him  lying  on  the  lounge  by  the  win- 
dow, the  lids  fallen  over  the  dark 
eyes  and  his  face  placid  with  sleep 
or  contemplation.  .  .  .  They  sought 
in  vain  for  the  reason  of  the  fire — 
but  why  search  for  causes  ? 

All  those  beautiful  hills  that  we 
loved  to  watch  as  the  evening  haze 
gathered,  the  Master  left  in  trust  for 
the  people  of  the  State — many  acres 
of  weaving  forests.  And  the  School 
continued  in  its  old  place,  the  Broth- 
ers looking  after  its  wants  and  sup- 
plying it  with  means  to  continue  its 
work.  But  the  Inn  was  never  re- 
built. The  blackened  ruins  of  build- 
ings were  removed  and  the  garden 

[83] 


THE  MASTER  OF  THE  INN 

in  the  court  extended  so  that  it 
covered  the  whole  space  where  the 
Inn  had  stood.  This  was  enclosed 
with  a  thick  plantation  of  firs  on  all 
sides  but  that  one  which  looked 
westward  across  the  Intervale.  The 
spot  can  be  seen  for  miles  around  on 
the  Albany  hill  side. 

And  when  it  was  ready — all  fra- 
grant and  radiant  with  flowers — they 
placed  the  Master  there  beside  the 
pool,  where  he  had  loved  to  sit,  sur- 
rounded by  men.  On  the  sunken  slab 
his  title  was  engraved — 

THE    MASTER   OF   THE    INN 


[84] 


ILIIII  HUM 

A    000  021  556    6 


